Time to Steal (10 page)

Chapter Three

E
than sat in that damned car for a long time—long enough for his left hand to go numb from the handcuffs. Finally, a uniformed cop slid in behind the wheel, glanced at Ethan in the rearview mirror, and then dropped the transmission into gear and drove off. The fact that the cop never asked him any questions made Ethan wonder if Hastings had shared with her crew her advice for him to stay silent.

The ride to the police station was short, maybe ten minutes. The cop drove around to the back, where they waited for a garage door to open. They pulled through, and then waited for the door to come back down before the driver got out, walked around to the back of the cruiser, and opened Ethan's door.

“Come on,” he said. “Time to get you processed.”

Processed is what you do with sausage, not with people,
Ethan thought, but he said nothing. As he shifted position to get out of the vehicle, he realized how full his bladder was. “I need to pee,” he said as he swung his legs around to stand up.

“Go ahead,” the cop said. “They're not my pants.” He put a hand around Ethan's right biceps and helped him to his feet. “Thanks for the warning, though. Most prisoners aren't that courteous. They just piss on you without notice.”

Ethan considered asking the cop for a little help, but as soon as the image formed in his mind of a cop messing with a prisoner's zipper, he knew it was a stupid idea. As was the idea of letting him out of the cuffs just long enough to do what needed to be done. He'd just have to endure.

Saying nothing, he allowed himself to be led from the garage and into the basement of what he assumed was the local jail. The door through which he passed certainly looked thick enough and heavy enough to be part of a jail. And Ethan knew what he was talking about. This wasn't his first rodeo, after all. The cops would soon find out about his previous history of breaking and entering and his two DUIs. A few abortive attempts at drugs, but the drugs never bent reality enough to be worth the risks. The high wasn't worth the expense. Not when you could buy beer by the quart for a couple of bucks at 7–11.

He'd done this processing thing in each of those cases, but he'd been released on his own recognizance on the B and E, and let go from the DUIs after the mandatory six-hour stint in the drunk tank. The judge had warned him of dire consequences if he didn't straighten up and fly right, and he'd been trying. Really, he had. He even thought maybe his life was back on a normal track.

Until the monster. Until this nightmare. It was all still very new, but looking back on it from the perspective of a couple of hours downrange, he'd have done it again. The monster had to die.
Had
to. Surely these people would understand that.

The heavy door slammed shut. Beige concrete blocks surrounded him on both sides as the cop led him across gleaming white linoleum that reflected and multiplied the glare of overhead fluorescent light. Fisheye cameras on the ceiling watched their every step. The hallway was narrow, and it terminated at another door, as heavy as the first, but this one sported a thick glass window.

The cop made eye contact with a guard at a desk inside, and the door buzzed. The cop pushed it open, and Ethan felt hope evaporate. He sensed that he'd breathed his last breath of fresh air for a very long time.

In that vacuum of hope, he felt the hot urine stream down his right leg. It soaked his socks before it showed through his pants, and it streamed over his shoes. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't worry about it,” the cop replied. “It happens more than you might imagine. At least you don't have to feel like you're going to explode.”

“It's embarrassing.”

“It's jail,” the cop said. “There's a lot more embarrassment to come. Just try to keep it in perspective.”

The man at the end of the hallway sat at a window, reminding Ethan of a receptionist in ugliest medical practice in the world. He wore the same uniform as the cop who escorted him. The receptionist cop smiled as they approached.

“So I see we've got a bed-wetter,” he said. “I'll have to make a note for rubber sheets.”

“Give him a break, Vince,” the cop said. “This is Ethan Allen Falk. We're booking him on a homicide.”

“Ah, the big one!” Vince declared with a smile. “Bring him in and sit him down so we can get down to business.” The door with the window buzzed.

“Can I change clothes?” Ethan asked his escort at a whisper.

“Soon enough,” the cop said. “Really, don't worry about the little stuff.” Ethan glanced at the cop's name tag. He wanted to remember the nice cops. There was Hastings out there in the parking lot, and now this one. His name tag read Bailey.

The open door revealed an elaborate warren of doors and concrete block walls. The light in here was dimmer, and there was a lot more noise—the sound of many people at work doing many things. Officer Bailey led Ethan to a long metal bench. “Have a seat,” he said. “This will take a while.”

“Nathan, I haven't seen you in what, a week?” the deputy said. “You been on vacation?”

“I took the kids to see Mickey down in Florida,” Bailey said. “Fifty thousand screaming tourists and two-hundred-degree heat. I'm back to take a vacation from my vacation.”

The small talk went on for twenty minutes as Ethan sat on his bench, crossing and re-crossing his legs as he tried to find a comfortable posture. Nothing seemed to work. By the time he was called up to the tall desk, the bench had filled with five more men in handcuffs. They all looked way tougher than he, and none of them had pissed their pants.

Officer Bailey gripped Ethan's biceps and helped him to his feet. “Sometimes balance is a little hard when you don't have your hands.”

“Okay,” Officer Vince said, “I know that you're on the record not wanting to answer any questions, and that's fine, but these are just for information's sake. Nothing about the charges against you.”

Ethan gave his name (again) and his address (again). No, he didn't have any medical conditions, and no, he was not on any prescriptions. No, he was not addicted to any drugs, and no he wasn't intoxicated—as if they wouldn't find that out for themselves. And finally, no he was not experiencing suicidal ideations. He wondered what percentage of the people Vince processed had any idea what that term even meant.

Officer Bailey donned a pair of black leather gloves and Ethan stood still as the cop rummaged through his pockets yet another time. They'd already stripped him of everything out at the scene of the attack, and he didn't wear any jewelry. Bailey unfastened Ethan's belt and pulled it free of the loops. He wrapped the leather strip around his fist to make a loop, and then stuffed the loop into a plastic bag that was then inserted into the other plastic bag that contained his stuff.

Officer Bailey left after that, handing Ethan off to a towering cop whose name tag read Taylor, and who his colleagues called Bob. “Promise me you're not going to be a problem,” Officer Taylor said.

Ethan didn't answer because he didn't think the cop needed one. He allowed himself to be led farther down the concrete hallway. Next came the mug shot—full-face and profile—followed by finger printing. Ethan was surprised that they did the printing behind his back while he was still cuffed, manipulating his fingers one at a time while instructing him which digits to extend. How big a risk did they think he was?

“You're doing fine, Ethan,” Taylor said. They turned left and were buzzed through another door. The room was small, maybe ten-by-ten feet, and it smelled wet. An industrial-looking Dutch door dominated the left wall, heavy metal, with a panel at the top that swung away from Ethan, exposing bank-teller bars that had a half-moon slot along its lower edge. Another deputy stood on the other side. He looked unhappy.

“Remember your promise not to be a problem,” Deputy Taylor said. He moved behind Ethan and fumbled with the handcuffs. “Just hold still.”

Ethan didn't bother mentioning that he had never promised anything, though he had no intention of fighting anyone. As the handcuffs fell away, he brought his hands around to the front and rubbed his wrists. The bracelets had left red grooves in his skin.

“Now we need you to take your clothes off.”

Ethan's guts stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“Get naked,” said the guy behind the bars.

“Why?”

“Every new guest gets a shower,” Taylor said in a light tone. “And then you get your new wardrobe.”

“I took a shower this morning.”

“It's just procedure,” Taylor said. “No big deal.”

Ethan felt his heart race. He wondered if color had drained from his face. He felt a rush of dizziness.

That was
before
, he told himself. That was not now. The monster was not here. The monster was dead. He knew that because he'd witnessed the blood spray.

“Look,” said the guy behind the cage. “There's an easy way to do this, and there's a hard way. You can shower and be clean, or you can shower and be bloody. Your choice.”

Taylor seemed to sense something. He cocked his head. “You okay?”

Ethan didn't answer. He opened the three buttons at the top of his polo shirt, and pulled it over his head. He hovered it in the air, unsure what to do with it.

The deputy at the window tapped the top edge of the lower door. “Right here.”

Ethan draped the shirt, and then kicked out of his shoes. Reeboks, the most expensive shoes he'd ever bought, purchased four months ago in celebration of his first real job. He picked those up and placed them on top of the shirt. They were still damp with his piss. He bent at the waist to pull up his pants legs and get at his socks.

“You can sit on the bench if you want,” Taylor said.

Ethan sat. He took his time, pulling each sock down below his ankle bones before scooping them off his feet one at a time.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, we don't have all day,” Window-man said.

He unbuttoned his jeans. Unzipped them. Paused.

“We're not going to hurt you, Ethan,” Taylor said.

He lifted his butt from the chair and pulled his legs out of the holes. He folded them vertically at the seam, wet leg over dry leg, and then folded them again, and then again, creating a nearly perfect square.

“What?” His head shot to Taylor.

“What what? I didn't say anything. But we need to get on with this.”

Ethan hadn't worn tight underwear in eleven years. Not since that day. He stepped out of his soaked boxer shorts, folded them, and placed them on the bench atop the rest of his clothes. He felt tears pressing behind his eyes, and he saw that his hands were shaking.

“Over here.” Window-man beckoned Ethan with two fingers.

Naked now, Ethan carried his clothes to the deputy and placed them next to his shirt and his shoes.

“Try not to gain or lose too much weight over the next twenty years,” the window cop said with a chuckle. “These are your go-home clothes, too. And holy crap are they gonna stink by then.”

Ethan hated the man behind the bars. He was a shithead bully with a badge. An asshole who sensed weakness in others and preyed upon it. He was a predator.

“This way,” Taylor said. He beckoned for the next door. This one was wooden and needed no buzzer to pass through. On the other side, a row of three shower heads protruded from the wall, dripping water onto iron-stained once-green tiles. Taylor gestured to them with an open hand. “There's soap in the dispensers on the wall. I advise you to be thorough. After this, once we transfer you to the Adult Detention Center, you'll be limited to two showers a week.”

Ethan hesitated, his hands covering himself. “Are you going to watch?”

“'Fraid I have to. Believe me, there are other things I'd much rather be doing.”

Ethan moved hesitantly, haltingly. With his hands still cupping his genitals, he stepped over the two-inch curb that marked the edge of the shower and shivered as his feet hit the ages-old accumulation of water. The water spigots were a knurled wheel-and-spoke design that looked more appropriate to an outdoor hose bib. They were unmarked, but Ethan bet on the standard arrangement of hot on the left. Standing to the side, he cracked the knob, heard a rush of air, and then dodged a formless spray of frigid water that hit him even from his offset of ninety degrees. The chill took his breath away. Five seconds later, the temperature transitioned to scalding. After fifteen or twenty seconds of balancing with the knobs, the spray was tolerable.

Eyes closed, Ethan took his time. He tried to recall the tricks the psychologists had taught him about focusing away from the demons and toward the positive. He needed to find that boat dock in the woods that he'd never actually visited, but that he'd conjured as his place to retreat mentally. If he could make it to the dock, the bad thoughts could be kept at bay.

It had worked so well then. But back at that point, after he'd been rescued and returned, the reality of his life was indeed safe. Now, he was back in the hands of—

“Okay, that's enough,” Taylor said. “Rinse off and let's get going.”

Ethan leaned forward into the wall, into the spigots, and let the water flood for just a few more seconds over his face and hair. Down his back. Then he shut the water off.